A Chef's Elegant Sandwich Offering at Bub and Pop's | Food Court

The sandwiches at Bub and Pop’s were inspired by the corner grocery the owner’s grandparents ran in Philadelphia.

What’s a well-seasoned toque to do when he can’t quite find his dream job? Whip one up, of course.

That’s what newly minted restaurateur Jonathan Taub did when he threw open the doors to Bub and Pop’s (1815 M St. NW).

Taub, who co-owns the cozy sandwich shop with his mother — the feisty matron usually parked right behind the register — has been honing his craft locally at Adour, Art and Soul and, most recently, Pound the Hill; before relocating to D.C., he contributed to award-winning restaurants (Morimoto, Lacroix) up north.

But he insists his first love has always been the super-sloppy gut bombs slung by neighborhood shops in his native Philadelphia. Taub learned the art of hoagie-making firsthand by spending time with his grandparents, the titular Bub and Pop, in the corner grocery they operated in West Philly years ago.

“What I aspire to cook is French cuisine,” he said of his classical training, “but I’ve also always had a passion for sandwiches.”

Taub said he modeled many of the offerings at his throwback carryout on deli standards he grew up with, but obviously he had to put his own stamp on them. “I just refined and twisted them a bit,” he said.

Those embellishments make for some mighty fine eating.

Every order begins with a 12-inch Italian hoagie roll custom-ordered from a local baker. The bread is pillow soft but typically sturdy enough to contain the mountains of meat Taub heaps between the fluffy white halves.

His Bolognese Parmesan is a prime example: Rather than rely on the mealy orbs and cloyingly sweet sauce employed by competing operations, this grinder on steroids pours a generous serving of Sunday gravy — rich tomato ragout bolstered by maddeningly tender meatballs, savory shredded brisket, unctuous pork belly and bitter arugula — into the cottony roll and then smothers the slow-simmered proteins with shaved pecorino romano.

It’s clear the workhorse-like brisket — it’s featured in almost half of the signature sandwiches— is Taub’s baby. Each monster slab (he estimates he’s burning through about 150 pounds of the stuff each week) takes six hours to prepare, a painstaking process that involves vigorously rubbing it down, searing it, braising it, steeping it in au jus overnight and then finishing it just before showtime. The fork-tender results are showcased to greatest effect in a solo number complemented by zesty horseradish cream sauce, nutty aged Gouda and, for an extra $1, a warm, yolk-spilling fried egg.